


Off the Map - New South Wales

by gelfling



Series: Off the Map [1]
Category: Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: Because its normal to help friends shower, Eventual Smut, Laurence is the soul of propiety, M/M, Slow Burn, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-21 05:50:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9534401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gelfling/pseuds/gelfling
Summary: Short collection of drabbles and moments within Tongue of Serpents, mostly having fun with Laurence being generally innocent and driving other people crazy.Thegenteel fiction of privacy upon a ship, indeed.Spoilers for Tongue of Serpents.





	

***

The _genteel fiction of privacy_ upon a ship, indeed.  Laurence could well understand Tharkay’s reluctance to disclose such sensitive information such a smuggling investigation, aboard the _Allegiance_ ; New South Wales was not so isolated to prevent idle gossip from reaching the East India Trading Company, or her rivals.

 

Laurence enjoyed the shade of the thick underbrush and relative cool of the morning by the stream, listening to Thakay’s carefully worded tidbits of information in regards to his search for the smugglers while the other stripped off his shirt.

 

“One might wonder that trail carrying twenty tons of goods, yearly, would have some substantial use,” Laurence wondered.  “I would expect we could see it from above.”

 

“One might expect,” Tharkay replied, apparently agreeing—or possibly mocking--as he finished undressing, kneeling chest-deep in the creek while rinsing his shirt and trousers. 

 

Laurence sympathized, and started unbuttoning his own shirt for a rinse; they were both too used to long travels to take for granted the comforts of clean laundry, or opportunities to bathe.  After the few weeks in the Australian outback his sleeves were stiff enough with sweat to hold a wrinkle or crease.  He took his boots off, and squatted by the creek to work out some of the stains.

 

As it was, the blessed bit of privacy the early hour afforded them felt luxurious.  The few times they had managed to find water before, the dragons had taken precedent, being far too valuable to allow to go thirsty or overheat, and afterwards the convicts had swarmed the banks with such noise and raucous talk that Laurence wondered that he had not before noticed Tharkay avoided the area entire.   Tharkay was rather protective of his privacy, his person, and Laurence not insensible to the degree of trust shown to him with this small intimacy, as he noted the small thin scars crossing from his neck to above Tharkay’s right nipple.

 

For a moment, Laurence felt a pang of guilt—he had been far too busy seeing to Temeraire’s comfort and health in the savage heat (which was acceptable) and irritating and being irritated by Rankin (which was not) to pay any mind to the rest of his sparse crew. 

 

There were rivulets of visible sweat and dirt coming off Tharkay’s skin, noticeably darker where the sun had burned him; for a moment he held Laurence’s eye across the cold stream, and Laurence wondered if he was meant to look away, or leave.  But Tharkay merely nodded before going back to his own ablutions, water cascading over his head, dripping off his dark hair. 

 

Laurence hung up their clothing on the brush; it would dry soon enough, though the sun had yet to truly rise beyond some streaking of blue in the sky.

 

“May I?” Laurence gestured briefly.  “We cannot be long away.”

 

Tharkay shrugged, before glancing away as Laurence entered the creek behind him, and quietly mentioned they would need to keep a lookout for trees with similar foliage, when they were aloft; Tharkay had only seen them so far near other creeks.  Water was proving to be an elusive necessity, in this alien landscape.

 

Laurence gave the foliage a doubtful look as he scrubbed as gently as he could through Tharkay’s ragged dark hair—too long without a good trim, though Tharkay wore his hair too short for a proper queue, normally--and ignored the quick heat along his neck.  It was still too dark to make out Laurence’s blush, and in any case they were well alone.  If a runner or Rankin where to come across them now, Laurence could well imagine the rumors and slander to follow.

 

He was overstepping his boundaries, he was _completely_ overstepping propriety, but his reasoning was sound (Temeraire _would_ throw down the entire valley to find him, if Laurence was late) and until Tharkay rebuked him, speed held the higher priority.  Despite the weeks of travel, the strands were sleek when wet, and felt like heavy silk under his fingers.  Laurence tried to be gentle, as Tharkay had nearly stilled under his hands, slowing washing one arm only.

 

“I am afraid we must rely on your eyesight from above, then; I do not know that I could make them out from such a distance,” Laurence cupped more cold water over Tharkay’s neck, absentmindedly thumbing the sharp change in coloration between his neck and his shoulders; there was no gradation in color at all.  His shoulders were nearly as wide as Laurence’s, yet somehow felt thinner than he expected under his hands, the bones delicate and muscles well defined—completely ludicrous.  There was nothing delicate about Tharkay.

 

…And his hands were starting to linger on his shoulders.

 

Laurence stepped onto the bank, and drew his shirt back on; still damp at the edges, oddly chilly, but at least not so rank as it was.  By midmorning it would likely be soaked again in sweat, but one had to take their victories were possible.  As it was, his feet were already dry enough to slip his boots on without squelching.  

 

“Go on ahead,” Tharkay seemed thoughtful; likely intent on enjoying the little privacy for a little longer.  “I will follow shortly.”

 

***

“You said what, pray?”

 

Tharkay took his time sipping the watered-down rotgut that passed for rum in New South Wales, and ignored Granby’s question and inappropriately gleeful look.  Minus the scales and steam, he could be sharing a drink with Iskierka leering at him; Granby had very nearly duplicated her treasure-hungry expression down to the quirk of his brows.

 

When he was done drawing out the moment, Tharkay replied, “Privateering may be a lucrative venture, if well approached, and would well match Laurence’s talents and aptitudes.  I thought it a natural offer.”

 

“Well, yes, obviously,” Granby had an irritatingly expectant look about his eyes, in the quirk of his lips.  Obviously, he did not believe the offer to be as careless as Laurence had…more or less.  “I imagine you lot could amass quite a fortune between the three of you—that would give Iskierka no end of grief, to see Temaraire as decked out as a king.  Does that mean I’ll mean be addressing my letters to—?”

 

“He refused the offer.”

 

“What?”

  
“There’s more to life than gold, and the pursuit of higher things is the prerogative of princes,” Tharkay finished philosophically, the platitude brittle even before he spoke, but with a little of his old irony.  Granby was briefly silent with shock, a fact he was quick to capitalize on.  “And I respect the good captain’s judgement.”

 

“ _Really_?”

 

“Nevertheless, I find my business calls me back to Bombay, though I doubt my information is still secret, or even current.”  He favored Granby with a brief smirk.  “So I believe I’ll continue to pursue physical wealth for a little longer.”

  
  
“Well, yes, when the pursuit of—of,” Granby’s mouth opened once more and his fingers flexed, as if scrambling to pull the next words out from under the table.  Abruptly he took a swig of his own drink, scowling, possibly at the flavor.  Tharkay allowed his attention to drift to a heated argument in the tavern’s corner.  Pity was not something he wanted to acknowledge, right now—apt though it would be.

 

He did not bother to correct Granby’s assumption that Tharkay would accompany Laurence and Temeraire on their privateering, as it no longer signified.  Even if Tharkay’s own business could have accommodated such long times on the ocean, he doubted that his nerves and hands could stand long to be around Laurence without taking action, without someone or something to distract him. 

 

However, he would have known Laurence would be kept occupied, distracted, and—knowing Temeraire, and all dragon’s proclivity towards wealth—well cared for and prosperous.  Now he—he did not know what Laurence would do, or how he would fare; that odd discomfort bothered him, as did knowing that there was nothing he could do to alter it.  Laurence was not—not even slightly—his. 

 

Privately, Tharkay had hoped he could not longer attach himself to others, that he had grown too smooth and alien in the wilds to connect to others; but he had been disappointed some time ago, during Napoleon's invasion of England.

 

“Right.  Well that’s—right.  Because there’s nothing like as good as herding cows in the wilderness,” Granby added, with unaccustomed sarcasm.  He blinked, as if coming to a decision.  “Well, I’m damned sorry, Tharkay.”

  
  
Probably Will was on the few people to ever call him Tenzing; that number would likely remain very small, for the rest of Tharkay’s life.  However, Granby was a good man, steadfast and practical, if a little too hasty and not quite as discreet as Tharkay would have preferred.

 

“Did you mention any of this to Temeraire?”

  
  
“Laurence did,” he allowed himself another brief smirk at his own misfortune of finding himself an honest man.  “But while he seemed suitably excited at the prospect, his captain remains less so.  At some point, the good captain will have to live for himself, rather than just his dragon.  He is at least better than he was before Shoeburyness,” Tharkay finished.

 

 _No longer suicidal_ , Tharkay did not say, tried not to remember his own amazement and horror at finding that Laurence would have stayed in that burning village, stayed in that musty attic, with the guards gone and the door unlocked, until the smoke and fire took him, because Laurence thought that was the _right thing to do_. 

 

Granby was watching him, too close; however the man acted in public, he was far more observant than Tharkay would have preferred, and also familiar with chasing after unattainable.  Tharkay raised his glass in salute.

 

“As Laurence will not rouse himself for wealth or any available cause,” and didn’t that burn, to know that Laurence would _leap_ for country that has maimed him, but for so little else--fortune and freedom included.  “All that is left is time.  I cannot force or persuade a man to live his life, if he truly believes it should be otherwise.”

 

Granby flinched, but barely, because this was one fact the aviators hated to speak of, to acknowledge.  It was one thing to say that any one of them would have walked the path of the righteous man, and do what Laurence had done, but it was quite another to consider standing stoic while suffering as Laurence had suffered, was _still_ suffering, without at least drowning one’s self in a bottle. 

 

“But he’ll do, for Temaire’s sake,” there was something of an argument, a plea in Granby’s strident tone.  He was scowling fiercely. 

 

“And we are all very grateful for that, I am sure.”  Without Temeraire, who depended on Laurence so thoroughly, and demanded so much of his time and attention, Tharkay wondered if Laurence would be breathing, still.  While he was by no means a conscious martyr, Laurence’s curious sense of _honor_ was far more demanding and merciless than a more practical hypocrite, and Tharkay could not pretend to understand it.

 

It was foolish, perhaps, to seek consolation from Granby—while they shared some inclinations, their backgrounds and values were too different to ever communicate and sympathize properly.  And yet it was only a matter of time before Granby knew how matters stood between them, for Laurence would see no reason to be discreet in their dealings when he neither noticed the effect his words had, or would ever suspect there might be a more prurient motive behind Tharkay’s actions.  And it did not seem fair for Tharkay to feel so helpless alone.

 

Perhaps traveling in a group—moving with Laurence—had worn and weakened him in more ways that he had yet accounted for.

 

“He would likely listen to you, if you pressed him,” Granby continued mulishly.  “He does listen to you.”

 

Tharkay said nothing, and stood to get another drink.

 

“He did before,” Granby continued, unchecked, if hiding slightly behind his glass.   Across the room, someone laughed, raucous and high.

 

 _He was going mad, murdering the French, until you came_ , Granby did not say, and yet Tharkay still clearly heard.  It had surprised Tharkay, even while it had flattered and chilled him, to see what Laurence had become--a murderer, a simple savage pit dog--and to find that his words meant so much to the other man, that he could have such an effect.  Granby had tried, loudly and publicly, Tharkay learned later, all the captains had tried at one point or another to bring Laurence back to sanity, unsuccessfully.

 

He had never learned if Granby begrudged him his fickle and strange influence over Laurence, or if he was truly as amenable to events as he seemed; though until that moment, Tharkay had not thought he had any influence over Laurence at all, much less so much.

 

Tharkay stopped briefly, to stare impassively; finally, he shrugged.  “I only said what he needed to hear; there is no need, now.”

**Author's Note:**

> It's really hard to mimic Regency dialogue; if you find any typos, please let me know.


End file.
